DOI issue:
July to December, 1853
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16612#0144
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
133
BRITISH ENTERPRISE.
N opulent Bill-sticker
lias, we understand, made
offers to the leader of the
Chinese insurgent forces
to rent of him, in the
event of his being made
Emperor, the lenowned
wall of China. The sum
offered has not trans-
pired, but it is said to
be something extremely
munificent. It is the bill-
sticker’s intention, as
soon as he obtains an im-
perial grant, to form a
company of persons who
spend large sums of
money every year in ad-
vertisements, and to
cover the entire length
of the wall with their
bills and posters, a larger
price being, of course,
charged for those which
will be posted inside
than for those outside
the wall, where compara-
tively but few people will be able to see them. The bills will be in English, or
specially translated into Chinese, at the option of the advertisers. In the event
of China being thrown open to English commerce—and there is, at present, every
opening of such a fact—it will be at once seen what “ a desirable medium for
advertisements ” this national posting-station will be. So favourably is the scheme
entertained by some of our leading advertisers, that already have 12,000 miles of
that part of the wall, which runs through the most densely populated districts
of the Empire, been bespoken at an enormous rental. The company will be
announced in a few days, and it is expected that the shares will be quoted on
the ’Change at a heavy premium the very first day. Mr. Bernal Osborne has
been heard to say, “ that next to a celebrated Marquis’s property, it will be the
largest hoarding in the world,” and. there is no doubt it will be. All our puffing
tailors, pill-merchants, quack medicine-sellers, and Cambridge Sherry dealers, are
actively on the look-out. Professor Liebig’s testimonial in favour of Bitter Beer
is already printed in all the Chinese dialects, only waiting to be pasted up. We
shall keep our eye upon the wall.
DEAR ENTERTAINMENT EOR DEAR CREATURES.
“My dear Punch,
“ There is no doubt that the prodigious expenses of hotels are—as I over-
heard certain gentlemen say—in a great measnre owing to us confounded women.
We cause so many rooms to have to be kept np on our account. Why can’t we—
as they further asked, with a stronger expression—be content with a decent coffee-
room, instead of requiring a separate sitting apartment ? Why ? I asked myself
the same question, and being unable to answer it, I thought the next time I was
out with Charles I would go into the coffee-room and not be confounded. So the
other day when he took me to one of those inns which a letter I read in the Times
calls a “ Hotel of recreation,” I insisted on our dining in the public room. There
were some gentlemen sitting there that we have since met in society, when they
behaved in such a way that I couldn’t think what they meant, until at last I found
that we were looked upon as improper people because I had been seen at dinner in
the coffee-room of a tavern! When I discovered this I felt confounded indeed.
It seems that I have committed an offence against society, everybody is so cool to
me, and really, if it were not for the contempt I feel for such slaves of custom
and prejudice, and the support I derive from the knowledge that I have pleased
my husband, and saved us both money, I should be dreadfully grieved. But his
approbation, and that of my own conscience, are quite enough for me; however, as
that is not quite the case, I am afraid, with all women, the consequence is that they
won’t brave the world, and go in the coffee-room. I must confess, Mr. Punch,
that before we take all the credit for what is called in novels the c Self Sacrifice
of Woman’ which is given us, we might as well immolate a little of our conven-
tionality on the altar of domestic happiness. I am sure that Judy is of the same
mind as your equally constant admirer,
“ Belgravia, Sept., 1853.” “ Fides.
KING CHOLERAS PROCESSION.
Erom Russian steppe, from Persian sand,
Erom pine-fringed Norway fiord,
Erom Elbe’s and Eyder’s peopled strand
I’ve skimmed the sea—I’ve swept the land—
Way for your lord !
Come deck my board—prepare my bed,
And let the trump of doom
Peal out a march, that as I tread
Above the dying and the dead
All may make room!
Erom far I snuff the odour sweet
That I do love the best;
And wheresoe’er I set my feet.
Courtiers and liegemen flock to greet
Their King confest.
Well have you done your loyal part.
My subjects and my slaves—
In town and country, port and mart.
Ail’s ready—after my own heart—
All—to the graves !
What is my feast ? These babes forpined ;—
Men ere their prime made old;—
These sots, with strong drink bleared and blind—
These herds of unsexed woman-kind
Eoul-mouthed and bold—
These bodies, stunted, shrivelled, seared
With the malaria’s breath;
In foetid dens and workshops reared ;
Erom reeking sewers, drains uncleared.
Drinking in death.
What is my court ? These cellars piled
With filth of many a year—
These rooms with rotting damps defiled—
These alleys where the sun ne’er smiled,
Darkling and drear !
These streets along the river’s bank,
Below the rise of tide ;
These hovels, set in stifling rank.
Sapped by the earth-damps green and dank—
These cess-pools wide.
These yards, whose heaps of dust and bone
Breathe poison all around;
These styes, whose swinish tenants grown
Half human, with their masters own
A common ground.
What are my perfumes ? Stink and stench
Erom slaughter-house and sewer ;
The oozing gas from opened trench,
The effluvia of the pools that drench
Court-yards impure.
What is my music ? Hard-wrung groans
From strong men stricken down ;
Women’s and children’s feebler moans,
And the slow death-bell’s muffled tones
In every town.
Who are my lieges ? Those that rule
In Vestry and at Board ;
The Town-hall’s glib and giddy fool.
The mob’s most abject slave and tool.
Though called its lord.
He who with prate of Vested Rights
Old forms of wrong defends ;
Who for pound-foolishness still fights.
Wisdom, save penny-wisdom, slights;—
These are my friends.
Strikes to be Lauded.
We are glad to see that the needlewomen have at last struck, aud we wish
another class of the overworked and underpaid would follow their example, the
working clergy. Such a ceurse would not be uncanonical. A bishop, to be sure,
is required to be “ no striker,” nor has he occasion to be one with his thousands a
year; but the case is very different with the curate who has only twenty pounds.
The Industrious Cossacks.
We don’t wonder that some of our Manchester friends
should be content to see the Russian forces holding the
Principalities. Those who object to the idleness of a mili-
tary life must naturally admire an army of occupation.
Vol. 25.
5
133
BRITISH ENTERPRISE.
N opulent Bill-sticker
lias, we understand, made
offers to the leader of the
Chinese insurgent forces
to rent of him, in the
event of his being made
Emperor, the lenowned
wall of China. The sum
offered has not trans-
pired, but it is said to
be something extremely
munificent. It is the bill-
sticker’s intention, as
soon as he obtains an im-
perial grant, to form a
company of persons who
spend large sums of
money every year in ad-
vertisements, and to
cover the entire length
of the wall with their
bills and posters, a larger
price being, of course,
charged for those which
will be posted inside
than for those outside
the wall, where compara-
tively but few people will be able to see them. The bills will be in English, or
specially translated into Chinese, at the option of the advertisers. In the event
of China being thrown open to English commerce—and there is, at present, every
opening of such a fact—it will be at once seen what “ a desirable medium for
advertisements ” this national posting-station will be. So favourably is the scheme
entertained by some of our leading advertisers, that already have 12,000 miles of
that part of the wall, which runs through the most densely populated districts
of the Empire, been bespoken at an enormous rental. The company will be
announced in a few days, and it is expected that the shares will be quoted on
the ’Change at a heavy premium the very first day. Mr. Bernal Osborne has
been heard to say, “ that next to a celebrated Marquis’s property, it will be the
largest hoarding in the world,” and. there is no doubt it will be. All our puffing
tailors, pill-merchants, quack medicine-sellers, and Cambridge Sherry dealers, are
actively on the look-out. Professor Liebig’s testimonial in favour of Bitter Beer
is already printed in all the Chinese dialects, only waiting to be pasted up. We
shall keep our eye upon the wall.
DEAR ENTERTAINMENT EOR DEAR CREATURES.
“My dear Punch,
“ There is no doubt that the prodigious expenses of hotels are—as I over-
heard certain gentlemen say—in a great measnre owing to us confounded women.
We cause so many rooms to have to be kept np on our account. Why can’t we—
as they further asked, with a stronger expression—be content with a decent coffee-
room, instead of requiring a separate sitting apartment ? Why ? I asked myself
the same question, and being unable to answer it, I thought the next time I was
out with Charles I would go into the coffee-room and not be confounded. So the
other day when he took me to one of those inns which a letter I read in the Times
calls a “ Hotel of recreation,” I insisted on our dining in the public room. There
were some gentlemen sitting there that we have since met in society, when they
behaved in such a way that I couldn’t think what they meant, until at last I found
that we were looked upon as improper people because I had been seen at dinner in
the coffee-room of a tavern! When I discovered this I felt confounded indeed.
It seems that I have committed an offence against society, everybody is so cool to
me, and really, if it were not for the contempt I feel for such slaves of custom
and prejudice, and the support I derive from the knowledge that I have pleased
my husband, and saved us both money, I should be dreadfully grieved. But his
approbation, and that of my own conscience, are quite enough for me; however, as
that is not quite the case, I am afraid, with all women, the consequence is that they
won’t brave the world, and go in the coffee-room. I must confess, Mr. Punch,
that before we take all the credit for what is called in novels the c Self Sacrifice
of Woman’ which is given us, we might as well immolate a little of our conven-
tionality on the altar of domestic happiness. I am sure that Judy is of the same
mind as your equally constant admirer,
“ Belgravia, Sept., 1853.” “ Fides.
KING CHOLERAS PROCESSION.
Erom Russian steppe, from Persian sand,
Erom pine-fringed Norway fiord,
Erom Elbe’s and Eyder’s peopled strand
I’ve skimmed the sea—I’ve swept the land—
Way for your lord !
Come deck my board—prepare my bed,
And let the trump of doom
Peal out a march, that as I tread
Above the dying and the dead
All may make room!
Erom far I snuff the odour sweet
That I do love the best;
And wheresoe’er I set my feet.
Courtiers and liegemen flock to greet
Their King confest.
Well have you done your loyal part.
My subjects and my slaves—
In town and country, port and mart.
Ail’s ready—after my own heart—
All—to the graves !
What is my feast ? These babes forpined ;—
Men ere their prime made old;—
These sots, with strong drink bleared and blind—
These herds of unsexed woman-kind
Eoul-mouthed and bold—
These bodies, stunted, shrivelled, seared
With the malaria’s breath;
In foetid dens and workshops reared ;
Erom reeking sewers, drains uncleared.
Drinking in death.
What is my court ? These cellars piled
With filth of many a year—
These rooms with rotting damps defiled—
These alleys where the sun ne’er smiled,
Darkling and drear !
These streets along the river’s bank,
Below the rise of tide ;
These hovels, set in stifling rank.
Sapped by the earth-damps green and dank—
These cess-pools wide.
These yards, whose heaps of dust and bone
Breathe poison all around;
These styes, whose swinish tenants grown
Half human, with their masters own
A common ground.
What are my perfumes ? Stink and stench
Erom slaughter-house and sewer ;
The oozing gas from opened trench,
The effluvia of the pools that drench
Court-yards impure.
What is my music ? Hard-wrung groans
From strong men stricken down ;
Women’s and children’s feebler moans,
And the slow death-bell’s muffled tones
In every town.
Who are my lieges ? Those that rule
In Vestry and at Board ;
The Town-hall’s glib and giddy fool.
The mob’s most abject slave and tool.
Though called its lord.
He who with prate of Vested Rights
Old forms of wrong defends ;
Who for pound-foolishness still fights.
Wisdom, save penny-wisdom, slights;—
These are my friends.
Strikes to be Lauded.
We are glad to see that the needlewomen have at last struck, aud we wish
another class of the overworked and underpaid would follow their example, the
working clergy. Such a ceurse would not be uncanonical. A bishop, to be sure,
is required to be “ no striker,” nor has he occasion to be one with his thousands a
year; but the case is very different with the curate who has only twenty pounds.
The Industrious Cossacks.
We don’t wonder that some of our Manchester friends
should be content to see the Russian forces holding the
Principalities. Those who object to the idleness of a mili-
tary life must naturally admire an army of occupation.
Vol. 25.
5